


Hurt me all you want

by greeneyed



Category: Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types
Genre: A bit of Elio's POV, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Chicago 7 years later, Eventual Smut, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Mild Smut, Oliver's POV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-03-30 04:26:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13942575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greeneyed/pseuds/greeneyed
Summary: So I've watched 'Lady Bird' and I was taken aback by Timothee's portrayal of Kyle. As deadpan as the character is, Timmy totally nailed it. And it got me thinking, what if grown-up Elio developed such impassiveness? Wouldn't it be interesting to take a look at?Enjoy!





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> The pieces by Chopin I'm referring to in the first chapter are available on Youtube. I prefer Iris Hond & New Amsterdam Orchestra version of all
> 
> Also, I've never actually been to Chicago, but I've always had a thing for it, so forgive me for any inaccuracies.

I’m standing in front of the mirror, thinking whether I should’ve shaved – with my cheeks stubbled I look older, fiercer. The doorbell rings and I hear Caitlyn, out babysitter, come in and greet my wife and my son. I make no move to go down and say hello, still staring at my reflection, not sated with my look for a bit. I remove my tie and unbutton the shirt – it goes better with my unshaved face, I think.

It’s been a long time since I really cared for the way I looked but tonight is different. It’s our 7th anniversary, and my wife got the tickets to the Classical music concert, the one her sister went to in New York two weeks ago and was completely amazed by. The tickets have been sold out a month ago, so I guess, it took her pulling some strings to have them and I am beyond grateful as I love classical music. So I inspect my reflection one more time, fix my hair and smooth out the collar of my shirt – looking good is the least I can do to show gratitude to my wife.

“Caity’s here,” she says as she approaches.

She’s tall, only a few inches shorter than me, and gorgeous: she’s got bottomless blue eyes, a lot like mine, and shoulder-length wavy blond hair. In the mirror, and I’m sure in the eyes of our friends, relatives and random strangers, we look like picture perfect family. If only they knew how far from reality it is.

I would lie if I say that our marriage is a complete disaster, we’ve had a lot of good moments, we have a son whom we both adore, but other than that there’s nothing that binds us together anymore. Sometimes, okay, most of the time, I hope she’ll have an affair and leave me as I’m too faint-hearted for that, but I know she’s too honorable, so I hope in vain. Despite her drop-dead-diva look, she’s very maternal and caring, so she would’ve made a perfect wife if only her husband wasn’t a prick like me. Even now, when we barely speak to one another anymore, she puts effort into making this night special, and I hate myself for not being able to reciprocate appropriately.

“You look beautiful,” I say but my voice sounds flat and I hate myself even more.

That’s what I’ve become exceedingly good at. If self-loathing was a sport, I’d be a world-class champion.

“Thanks, you look not so bad yourself,” she smiles, and the warmth of her smile stings me.

We are silent in the car, just like we’re silent pretty much everywhere else these days, only faint monotony of radio humming in the background. I think of any topic for a casual chit-chat, but everything that comes to my mind seems simulated. I remember the time when we used to talk about anything: my work, her work, our friends, our families. She would tell me about funny or strange things that had happened to her during the day, and I would do the same. Where did it all go, I wonder.

I park a block away from Portage Theater and we walk slowly, the air is breezy but surprisingly warm for Chicago in May. My wife spots a colleague at the entrance, clearly waiting for someone, and heads towards her as I trail behind, unwilling to put on my ‘perfect husband’ mask. They exchange a couple of words, and we enter the theater, strolling close but not touching. She doesn’t say anything about me not wanting to acknowledge her friend, I don’t even get the reproachful look, the one wives usually give their husbands when disappointed. By now I’ve figured she has no expectations of me whatsoever, and as cynical and hopeless as it sounds, I’m happy with it. We live in a vacuum, and as long as nothing and no one intrudes, we’re comfortable in it. The universe, though, has its own plans.

I take my seat and my wife excuses herself to go say hello to some acquaintances of hers. I catch myself thinking there might be people I know as well, but I don’t bother lifting my head to look around. Instead, I sag into my seat in anticipation: I’ve developed a passion for classical music over the year, one of a few things that still make me feel something. But what excites me even more is that the program we’re about to hear is all about the piano music. There’re five or six pianists, performing in shifts, accompanied by _Chicago Sinfonietta_.

As the concert starts, I feel every muscle in my body unwind, loose their regular tension. As for my mind, it drifts into other dimension, where I’m me, not this old grumpy me, but young, sunny, lighthearted. Every time the musician touches certain keys, it feels like he touches my heart strings, extracts me from the limbo I’ve been in for years, and I’m not sure if I can handle waking up to reality. Only then I realize that soloist is playing Bach, not just any piece, but _the piece_ , and I feel tears in my eyes.

Next goes Rachmaninov, and it’s more playful and eccentric, so I get the opportunity to shake off the memories and pull myself together. I enjoy the performance, but keep myself distant fearing an explicit outburst of emotion, which is unnatural for me. 

“My sister said they saved the best one for desert,” my wife whispers to my ear and I smirk. But as ‘the best one’ emerges on the stage, the smirk vanishes from my face giving way to sheer horror. No, no, no, this can’t be happening. But it is. It’s Elio, standing in just about 30 feet from me in all his glory. I’m in panic, in agony, but I can’t move a limb. He bows and settles on the stool, his entire posture oozes with dignity and assuredness, though it changes as soon as his fingers touch the keys. He plays _Fantaisie-Impromptu_ by Chopin, and he’s so vibrant, every emotion reflects on his illuminated face. It’s clear to see that he connects to the music he’s playing. It’s like he’s floating on air. The last note trails away but he keeps his hands on the keyboard, head down with his long curls covering his eyes, and no one dares to clap just yet. He sighs, his deep breath resonates in mute silence, and hits a note, and I know this is death for me. It’s _Prelude No. 4 in E Minor_ , my favorite classic piece of all time. I remember telling him once, back in Italy, and the fact that now he plays it in concerts makes me wonder how he feels about it. Does he ever think of me while performing? Does he ever think of me at all?

A squall of applause pulls me out of a trance state. I watch him rise and bow down in appreciation to the musicians of the orchestra, then to the audience, a faint smile on his face. I notice he looks and behaves different, there’s no insecurity in him anymore. He’s a demigod and he knows it and acts on it.

Out of nowhere, there’s a compelling urge to meet him, to look him in the eye and witness this change at close range. I tell my wife I’ll be back in a minute and head towards the dressing rooms. I don’t know if there’s any kind of security backstage, but I couldn’t care less. From what I see, supervisors are on the same page with me. I assume one of the pianists is from Chicago as there’s a crowd of people trampling by one of the doors, flowers and gifts in hands. I go ahead without any idea where I would find Elio and what I would say. My feet are in charge of carrying me on and I don’t resist, relying on them entirely for my mind has nothing to do with my current actions to begin with.

I spot him by the staircase. To be precise, I catch a shape of a man in a poorly lit hallway but I instantly know it’s him. As I draw nearer I can see he’s talking to a girl, incessantly looking around as if seeking someone, until his eyes meet mine. My heart skips a beat, or two, or stops for all I know. I’m not even sure I’m breathing, blinking or basically doing anything proper to a living being. He excuses himself and makes a couple steps toward glaring at me with an unreadable expression on his face. I expect him to say something first, but he doesn’t, simply eyeing me from head to toe as if trying to measure my height.

“Hello,” I finally utter, consumed with frustration.

“Hi,” he says with a weird close-lipped smile which doesn’t suit him, “long time no see.”

“Yeah,” I reply, nodding gravely. He nods back.

This is awkward as fuck. There’s no handshake, no patting on the back, no feature of a usual meeting between people who used to know each other, nothing, _niente_.

“So I guess you live in Chicago?” he asks and I wonder if he asks because he actually wants to know or because the pause is too long.

“Yes, I’ve been living here for three years now,” i think I notice him wince but I’m not sure if it’s not a figment of my imagination.

“Where’s your wife?”

“Em… she’s in the hall, I guess.”

“You shouldn’t keep her waiting,” he says, and I wish I could capture a hint of jealousy in his tone, but there’s none.

“It’s alright. I just wanted to say hi and ask you how you were.”

“I’m fine,” he gives a fixed response and I feel an itch to shake him to make him drop his false indifference.

But what if it’s not false? What if he really has no concern for me whatsoever and once we’re done here he’ll go about his business and never think of me again? The very idea hurts me, and I’m surprised to know I still can be hurt.

“Would you like to have dinner with us?” The words are out before I know it and a numbing panic comes over me.

“Sure, why not?” he shrugs and I know for a fact this is not the last time he’s going to surprise me tonight.

As we make our way toward the hall, I’m contemplating what I’m about to say to my wife. She has no idea who Elio is, not to mention our history, and I would like to keep it that way. But all my thoughts fall to pieces as soon as I pat her on the back and she turns to face us.

 “Wow,” Elio gasps in astonishment, “you are so beautiful.”

He escapes my pointed gaze and I catch something in his face, a shadow of long-forgotten pain mixed with… anger? My wife looks at me, confused but curious.

“Elizabeth, meet Elio, the guy you’ve been completely amazed by about ten minutes ago,” I address to my wife who is instantly beaming with a sincerest smile. “Elio, this is my wife Elizabeth.”

It feels like one of the most awkward moments of my life, the one I never wanted to be a part of in the first place. I used to imagine how it would go but I never thought it would be so peaceful.  In my mind, Elio was either sad and frustrated, or angry and in denial. There was no version where Elio would be all smiley and approving, probably cause I never wanted him to approve of my wife or like her at all for it would mean that he didn’t want me anymore. And of course, that is the real-life version, and with every nice word he says to my wife I feel an invisible knife being pulled out and plunged into my heart again and again and again.

“I’ve invited Elio to dinner,” I interrupt their pleasantries exchange and my wife bites her lip in abashment.

“I never told you,” she sounds apologetic, “I’ve made a reservation in your favorite restaurant, and it’s for two. It’s our anniversary,” she refers to Elio.

“Oh,” he gulps and I catch that same shadow of something indecipherable on his face, “next time, then.”

“But you must be leaving tomorrow,” I feel the annoyance start building up inside me, and I do my best to suppress it.

“No, in fact I’m not. I’m staying till the end of the week,” he barely looks at me, his eyes examining Liz’s face. She smiles at him and he smiles back, but there’s something about the way he looks at her I can’t figure out.

“So, tomorrow night, our house?” my wife sounds enthusiastic and I think I know why.

We haven’t had guests for a very long time, as we’d agreed it was too exhausting to pretend to be a normal family for the whole evening, but as much as I didn’t mind being on my own, she missed company, missed meeting new people and Elio’s visit would definitely cheer her up. He says yes without hesitation, and it doesn’t fail to sting me to note the ease with which he acts around my wife. I tell him our address and we say goodbyes. I watch him walk away with his head held high, and a part of me never wants to see him again.


	2. Good boy

Less than 24 hours since the last time I’m in front of the mirror again, this time clean shaved and visibly nervous. I can hide it from my wife, or at least I think I can, but I’m not fooling myself. Never could. I don’t know what to expect from tonight and I don’t like not knowing.

The doorbell rings, and I’m in no time at the door, joined by Liz, opening it and inviting him in. He hands me a bottle of wine as he walks in and I use it to distract myself. He’s wearing heavy boots, black tight jeans and an emerald green sweater which really brings out his eyes, and the messy hair only adds to the whole casual shabbiness. Is this even legal to look that good? He compliments our home and says hello to our son, who looks fascinated by a newcomer.

“Jack, this is Elio,” I encourage him towards Elio.

He simply says ‘hi’ and hides behind me, which surprises both me and my wife as our son is not a shy one. At the dinner table he refuses to sit separately and climbs onto my lap, and I don’t protest, using him as a shield throughout the evening. Whenever I feel my eyes linger on Elio for too long, I ruffle Jack’s hair or whisper something into his ear and we both laugh at our secret joke. At these moments I get the most cryptic look from my wife, who’s in her woman-of-the-house full mode, but I ignore her. Elio, on the other hand, seems untroubled and even amused by our buffoonery as if he’s always known me like this: a head of the family, a loving father and a devoted husband. I instantly start feeling sick. This whole dinner is nothing more than a farce, a miserable attempt to pull the wool over his eyes. And for what? So that he would see how ‘happy’ I am? And feel happy for me too?

I excuse myself and move my son to take my place as I’m going to the bathroom. I spend there a good twenty minutes or so, pacing around, examining the pattern of the floor tiles, splashing cold water over my face. Like if I stay here long enough our guest will get the message and leave, putting an end to my slow-motion excruciation. But, of course, he’s still there when I come back, both face and voice showing indulgent sympathy as he says ‘Is everything alright?’ and I feel sick again. I wonder if I threw up here and now, would it break an artificial atmosphere of the evening or would they stay in character all the way through.

Everything is not alright, I want to say. Everything is the fucking opposite to alright. But I just nod vacantly and pour myself a glass of water. I want him to leave, to never have come in the first place, to never exist in my world, or any world for that matter, because he is not _my Elio._ And whoever it is, that he is now, I want nothing to do with.

It’s a quarter to midnight when he finally asks to call him a taxi. My wife offers him to stay in the guest room, but he’s insistent. “Early meeting,” he justifies and throws out multiple compliments and thanks to her. Before he leaves he turns to me and suggests, “Can you meet me tomorrow for drinks, just the two of us? We barely had a chance to talk,” he darts a fake reproving look at Elizabeth and she shrugs expressly. “Sure,” the word escapes my mouth before I know it and I spend next nineteen hours beating myself up for not saying ‘no’ in all the languages I know.

We agreed to meet in a bar near his hotel at 7 p.m. and I’m early, way too early, so I turn around the corner and enter a secondhand bookshop. The sight of floor to ceiling piles of heavy volumes and the smell of old printing ink calm me down. As I open random books and run my fingers through the old pages, my inner turmoil comes to a halt, probably a temporary one, but that’ll do. I’ve exhausted myself to death by overthinking the two previous nights and an upcoming one, so I use the moment to chill and recharge my batteries as I know I’d need them as soon as my eyes are back on a familiar silhouette in the building across the street.

When I enter the bar, I can’t help but notice how much this place is like Elio: dark, exquisite, there’s something forbidden in its vibe, and I wonder if he’s been here before, if he’s known what it’s like and invited me here just to keep doing whatever it is that he was doing. I catch a sight of him sitting by the bar spinning a drink in his hand. He’s so lost in thought that he fails to acknowledge my approaching, and when I hail him, he looks like I caught him in flagrante delicto.

“Hey,” he says with this exaggerated smile on his face that makes me cringe.

“What were you thinking about?” I take a seat next to him and stare him in the face.

“Just work,” he shrugs, without breaking the eye contact. I wince.

Elio I knew was daring as well, but _this_ Elio’s glare exudes with a sense of superiority, omniscience. Like he knows my every single thought before it even crossed my mind and laughs at me on the inside.

“Why are we here?” I decide to just cut to the chase.

“What do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean,” I’m irritated in no time.

“Because you asked me to dinner and I came, then I’ve spent over four hours at your house and you never said a word to me so I figured tonight was my turn to listen.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Whatever it is that you have to say to me,” he draws in and inspects my face very closely, I immediately stop breathing because the air is replaced by the scent of his skin, his breath and I can’t inhale _that._ I can’t have any part of him inside me, even an invisible one, because once I do, I’m not sure I won’t crave for more. It hits me on the spot, I might not recognize him as _my Elio_ , he might never be _the Elio_ I used to know again, but I still want him, as if there’s a gravitational pull in him that only affects me. I curse under my breath and he tilts his head in my direction, mulling over what to do next. He orders two more drinks and when they arrive, moves to a separate table. I follow him, preparing myself for a slow vivisection as I know he figured me out, but for some reason he spares me and changes the subject completely.

“I like it here, in Chicago,” his voice softens a little, “It’s my favorite city in States so far.”

“Yeah, it’s amazing. Except for the weather, maybe,” I take a sip of the golden liquid filling my glass and it’s unexpectedly strong. Having a couple of these on an empty stomach might cause a lot of trouble.

“Well, I haven’t had a chance to experience all of its glory yet,” he chuckles.

“Come here in winter, see how teeth-chatteringly glorious it is then,” I banter and he snorts into his glass. It happens so unawares that I can’t help gape in awe, he takes notice and in a second he’s back to being an impregnable wall.

“Did you know I was in Chicago?” The question has been tormenting me for two days.

“Yes. My father told me,” he utters reluctantly.

“You talk about me?”

“We talk about everything,” he frowns as if he’s stating the obvious.

“I’m glad it hasn’t changed,” I barely raise my voice.

“Some things never do,” he says and looks straight into my face, his eyes flicker with warning.

Run, I hear my own voice in my head, run as fast as you can. Instead, I just sit there, clinging on to my stool, and hold his gaze for far too long until he smirks leniently and I remember that he is not _my Elio_. _My Elio_ was kind, open-hearted and caring. _This Elio_ is pitiless, poignant. _This Elio_ could break me in a heartbeat and wouldn’t even notice.

We keep our small talk up for a while until he gets on his feet and says he has to go. “Another early meeting,” he smiles apologetically and I wonder if he’s seeing someone. And if so who is it: a man or a woman? I don’t know what option sits with me better, because the very thinking of Elio touching another person turns my stomach.

I open my pocket to get some cash, but he stops me. “This one’s on me,” he says touching my hand and I pull away instantly, dazed by a jolt going through my body. He looks over me as if I’m some kind of outlandish creature.

“When are you leaving?” I inquire tentatively.

“Sunday morning.”

“Got any plans for tomorrow night?”

“Nothing in particular, why?” he pays for the drinks and heads to the exit.

“I thought… maybe you’d like to come over?”

“But it’s Friday, don’t you want like a nice family evening, just the three of you?” he steps outside trembling in the wind.

“Liz is taking Jack to her parents, so it’s just me,” I say cautiously, ready to back out at any point.

“Tomorrow, then,” he nods as if it’s exactly what he was counting on.

“Tomorrow,” I nod back and this time I get the pleasure to be the one who walks away.

 

Against all the logic, I decide to make pizza for dinner, not classic Italian, though, but more Americanized version, thin-crust and plenty of sauce. I haven’t been cooking for a long time so I get a bit carried away, and naturally he arrives when I’m head to toe covered in flour, trying to mix the dough just enough not to overdo it. “It’s open,” I shout from the kitchen, washing and wiping my hands. He shoots me an enigmatic look as he comes in and I expect him to laugh, but he merely narrows his eyes and I feel disappointed. I thought, I managed to melt him a little last night, but there he is, as vacant as ever.  He’s wearing black jeans and a tucked in shirt of the same color, looking both menacing and alluring. I’m staring at him, glued to the spot, and he’s pacing around, as if it’s his first time here and he’s inspecting the premises.

“Good thing I brought beer this time,” he finally speaks, “I thought it was a casual dinner.”

“It is. I just didn’t want to waste the opportunity to get off on cooking, as usually it’s my wife’s place.”

“Why didn’t you go with them?” he’s now standing in less than five feet from me, brushing unruly strands of hair away from his face but they keep falling.

“Because I never do anymore,” somehow I choose to go with the true answer instead of a set-up ‘I have to work on Saturday’.

“Why?” he opens two bottles, gives one to me and shoves the rest in the fridge.

I don’t reply, just take one big gulp from the bottle and get back to the kitchen table. He settles on a chair right in front of me and merely stares at me, taking little sips and licking his lips now and then. I can feel his eyes wandering around me and it makes me nervous. But the worst part is he knows I’m nervous and every time our eyes meet, his glare becomes more and more pushy.

An hour later we’re on the terrace, drinking our beers lazily, legs sprawled on a makeshift footrest. Elio puts his plate on the table, which has been pushed aside and stretches his body in an armchair opposite.

“I have to admit it wasn’t half as bad as I’d thought it would be,” he hides the yawn.

“That’s a hell of a compliment coming from you,” I chuckle.

He reaches into his front pocket to pull out a pack of cigarettes and offers me one, and when I refuse he raises his brows, “Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” I say, “I just don’t smoke anymore.”

“Good boy,” he smiles and closes his eyes as he takes a drag.

I’m frozen, yet I’m in hell. Never in my life have I been so offended and aroused by someone calling me a ‘good boy’, moreover, never have I ever imagined envying an object, a cigarette in particular. The way his mouth pouts around it makes my mind draw obscene pictures in my head. As he opens his eyes and exhales a massive puff of smoke I’m very much hard. Thank God, it’s growing dark, otherwise I would’ve burned with shame.

“So what’s going on with you and your wife?” he throws the stub into an empty bottle.

“Nothing.”

“Come on, I’m not blind,” he reaches out for another beer although his eyes are already flickering with tipsiness.

“Nothing is going on with me and my wife, literally,” I’m not sure I feel comfortable discussing my marriage with him but I don’t stop.

“How long?”

I laugh bitterly and his eyes gain seriousness.

“I don’t know, years? Long enough to stop even trying to change anything.”

“That’s awful,” he utters.

“I know, but it is what it is. Anyway, what about you? Are you seeing anyone?”

“No,” he responds too fast and I catch him right on that, arching my eyebrow in the most interrogative way.

“I travel all the time, so it’s hard to maintain any kind of commitment,” he says and I feel played.

“Oh,” is all I manage to babble.

“Besides, I think I’ve got my parents to blame for setting a bar too high.”

“What do you mean?” I know exactly what he means but I want him to say it anyway.

“I was raised by a couple that oozed love towards me and towards each other, so I took it as a given, but then I grew up and the reality hit me right in the face with all the might of a heartbreak,” he almost chokes with bitterness, washing it down with beer.

“You’re young, you’ve still got time,” I say but I’m not convinced myself.

“Time has nothing to do with that,” he sounds fierce and pained at the same time, “my dad once told me that we go emotionally bankrupt by the age of 30. According to his logic, I feel 65.”

I sigh, not knowing what to say, but he’s carried away.

“My parents never made any rules for me, or set any kind of goals. They just wanted me to be happy, and I failed them miserably. Why not just find a nice girl and bring her home and start a family? Why be different, special, as my father would say?”

He stops and I use the moment to cut in.

“Elio, I know I’m not in a position to say this to you, but still. Whatever you do, don’t ever go for a second-best thing. It might work for other people, but it would suffocate you, make you hate the person beside you, make you hate yourself. From where I’m standing right now, I could say it’s better to be alone than to be with a wrong person. But if you do find love, don’t repeat my mistake, fight for it, whatever it takes. And never, ever, settle for less.”

He stares at me, I can only see outlines of his face and a steady burn in his eyes. He hesitates for a moment, then rises from his armchair, crosses the distance in one step and leans to me, and before I can say or do anything, I can feel his lips touching mine. It’s a short kiss, like a gunshot, not lethal, but the one that’ll take a surgery and a long-term rehabilitation with lots of self-pity and remorse.

“I should go,” he blurts and blasts off sooner than I’m able to open my mouth.

This might not be _my_ _Elio_ , but whatever version of Elio it is, he not only can break me, he can destroy me for good. And right now I feel like I wouldn’t mind.


	3. Black holes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your kudos and comments. I couldn't bring myself to write for a while but now I'm back. Hope you'll like this chapter - I've had so much fun writing it.

I’m not sure whether I slept that night at all. Well, I must have, cause I do wake up at some point, blinking confusedly in the light of a new day. I get up, take a shower, have breakfast – do my usual routine, spend almost half a day grading papers, my mind entirely blank of any superfluous thoughts. I have a work meeting on campus in the evening, and by that time I can’t even tell what exactly happened last night or whether anything happened at all. For all I know, I might have spent it all alone at home, curled up on sofa watching TV, drinking beer, probably way too much beer. Elio might have never come over. In fact, I’m not even sure Elio was in Chicago in the first place. I assume it’s some kind of a defensive mechanism of my brain – to wipe, or at least to cloud, my mind so that I wouldn’t overthink it.

I leave campus around 8 p.m. and for a while I just sit in the car with the engine on, trying to collect my memories of a previous night piece by piece, and failing. I remember the smell of freshly cooked pizza filling the house, remember the taste of cold beer and the humming sounds of the city, all making the evening feel warm and cozy. But I didn’t feel warm inside. I still don’t. Like something is missing, has been missing for all this time and I desperately need to find out what it is and to have it.

I end up on a parking lot near Elio’s hotel, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in every part of my body. It almost deafens me, howling down all the noise around completely. I enter the hotel, cross the lobby straight to the reception and blurt in one breath, “Hello, I was supposed to have a meeting with a friend of mine, who happens to be a guest of your hotel but he never showed up. So I just wanted to know if he was okay.”

“Of course, what’s the name of your friend?” a receptionist replies with a slight blush. She’s very young, can’t be older than twenty, and looks very smitten, so I smile even wider thinking it might serve me well.

“Yes, he’s staying in the room 905. I can give him a call and tell you’re asking for him.”

“That would be very kind of you, thank you,” I go into my full _la muvi star_ mode for the first time in years and it feels weird, like trying on someone else’s clothes just to realize it could never fit you.

The girl dials the number and it takes time for her to start speaking. She asks for my name and by the look on her face I gather that a reply is positive. “He said you could come up if you wanted to,” her smile is a bit too much. I wonder if she’s been taking acting classes, cause no one smiles like that in real life.

When in elevator, I feel my feet grow lead-heavy and my memories suddenly kick back in. I can see now how the wind is playing with his curls, as we’re set on the terrace, how his mouth opens around the bottle of beer, how he licks his lips making sure I’m watching him. I try to remind myself of some hidden catch behind all that, as he’s clearly playing some kind of a game I don’t know the rules to, but the image of his lips close to mine, touching mine, stealing my breath, is so overpowering I literally heave with want when the lift stops on his floor.

He opens the door before I get to knock and lets me in. I notice immediately that he’s wearing an unbuttoned shirt, his hair is all mess, and there’re faint marks on his face.

“Have you been sleeping?” I look away, examining the room, though it’s hard to see anything as the curtains are closed.

“Yeah,” he turns away and heads to the bathroom, “I’m constantly jetlagged so I sleep when I sleep.”

He leaves the door open as he brushes his teeth, and I feel awkward as if I’m witnessing a very intimate act, probably because I still can’t shake off the thoughts from the elevator. He splashes water over his face and stares at his expression for a while, as though making sure he’s got himself under control.

“What are you doing here?” he moves to face me but I’m too distracted by the sliver of his bare torso which he surely notices but does nothing to cover himself, amused smirk on his face. A couple of minutes awake and yet he’s a daredevil. I feel stupid. Whatever his game is, I had lost before it’s even started.

“I don’t know,” I shrug confirming my surrender and he smiles panderingly.

‘It’s not like you, not knowing,” he steps out of the bathroom keeping his eyes steady on mine.

And I lash out.

I don’t know how fast I cross the room, or how hard I grab him, or how insane I look at the moment. All I know is I’m kissing him, every single version of him, and none of them is saying ‘stop’. Moreover, he reciprocates with such enthusiasm I’m afraid I can come right on the spot. I press him against the wall, hard, maybe too hard but he doesn’t protest. I devour him, my hands wandering greedily all over his body, pull him closer, though there’s no such thing as closer at that point, but I still try. I want him inside of me or me inside of him. I can’t stop for a breath for I’m scared he would push me away any minute now. But he’s as insatiable as I am, though I can feel anger coming from him. I don’t care.

He goes straight for unbuckling my belt, his fingers fast and determined this time, and I can’t help but wonder who’s going to top who. He’s pushing me toward the bedroom, and I finally break the kiss and look at him but he doesn’t meet my gaze, and it hits me. He might have given in to his desire but he’s still full of his attitude, which is why I decide to take the lead. I want to fuck this shit out of him, no matter how much energy it would take me.

Somehow he knows what’s on my mind as I can feel him submit to my will though a part of him is still raging with anger. I wonder whether he’s angry with me or with himself but I don’t dare to ask. In fact, I don’t dare to say anything at all as if the words might destroy the moment. I push him on the bed and climb on top of him, my hands busy undoing stubborn buttons on my shirt, and he’s leaning back on his shoulders watching me just like he did on our first night together. But the look in his eyes is different this time. Back then he looked at me like I was god, now however, he’s looking with audacity as if it’s him who’s deigning.  And it’s driving me wild, like literally wild. I strip him off his pants at the speed of light and take him in my mouth. He moans, and I’ve never heard a person moan like that in my entire life. I’ve never heard _him_ moan like that. Like I hurt him both emotionally and physically, while giving him the most divine pleasure, and he isn’t sure what he’s feeling more. Maybe, this is exactly what is happening.

I work rough and graceless with my mouth but from the bellows he makes I can tell that I’m hitting the spot. The way he fidgets and gasps and almost chokes on sobs makes me so oversexed I have to pause and he instantly looks up longing for more. I want to kiss him, the way I kissed him 7 years ago on our last night together, but I’m not sure he’d retaliate so I don’t. I kiss his chest instead leaning closer, trail his long neck with my thumb putting just a little pressure on his Adam’s apple, then cover his lower lip with it. He parts his lips and sucks my thumb with such devotion I can feel it in my crotch. I know his eyes are normally hazel but now in the dark and filled with lust they are black tar like cosmic holes which nothing, not even light can escape from. And once I’m on the event horizon I can’t escape too.

I aim to kiss his lips but he bites me and I come undone. I turn him over in a split second and for the lack of anything better in visible proximity I prep him up with my own spit and his pre-cum. I know I should be gentle but I’m not. I’m on the highway to the core of a black hole and there’s no time or need to be gentle. I almost ravage him as I thrust hard, all in one go, and he lets out another moan, even more desperate than the first one, so I stop to give him and myself time to adjust or whatever, but he hisses ‘don’t’. I give him another thrust and he arches his back and tilts his head back to look at me, his black hole eyes now turned into supermassive. He opens his mouth as I lean in for a kiss and smashes his lips on mine with such vigor I’m surprised the reality doesn’t crack. I keep moving, driving deeper into him, sounds of smacking flesh and frenzied gasps and moans filling the room, tarnishing it forever. It’s so good I want to cry. I’ve had a lot of sex in my life, but nothing compares to having sex with _him._ I wonder if he feels the same, but I don’t ask, afraid the answer may burst my perfect bubble. The moment I feel close to coming I pull out, turn him over and press our penises to rub together. I’ve never done this to him, or to anyone else as a matter of fact, and I can tell he hasn’t either but he angles toward and joins in. He’s so close I could lick the sweat at his collarbones, but I lick his mouth instead, very slowly and he comes with another deadly moan. I come just a fraction of a second later and sag onto him, our torsos sticky with cum. I think of going into shower or at least getting a tissue or something but as soon as I roll off to lie next to him I fall asleep.

I wake up to an empty bed and a warm ray of light seeping through the curtains. There’s no sign of Elio and his side is cold to the touch. I check my watch, it’s half past six, and remember he’s got a flight in a couple of hours. I extract myself from the bed, stretching like a cat, and reach for my underwear. The bedclothes are ruined, just like Elio’s reputation in the eyes of the hotel staff, and somehow I feel childishly proud of myself. 

I find him in the living-room, sipping coffee, all dressed-up and ready to go. I take a moment to admire his nonchalant beauty and then reveal my presence by saying ‘good morning’. He lifts his head for a mere second and simply nods. I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all. I mean, I haven’t had time to contemplate what’s about to happen but I wasn’t ready for him to go back to his ‘dickhead’ version the morning after I fucked him senseless. We might have not exchanged a word at night cause it felt like we didn’t need to but... What the fuck?

“Elio…” I start.

“Sit, have a coffee. You look like you need it,” he interrupts without even bothering to make eye-contact.

“Elio…”

“Don’t,” he’s sharp. I think this must be what it feels like when your throat is slashed by a razor blade. You can’t inhale, you can’t gulp. I move slowly towards him, still not knowing what to do next. It’s like our first morning all over again. I want to go back in time to last night and talk to him instead of doing what we’ve done. I want to take a look inside his head or his heart to detect what I did wrong. I want to beg him to stay. I want to tell him that I love him, that I’ve always loved him. But the words just won’t come out.

“Let me at least see you off to the airport?”

“I’ll manage.”

I slam the door so loud on my way out I probably wake up the entire floor.

 


	4. Hush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, it looks like I've choosen my direction and it might be different from the previous chapters. Still, hope you'll like it. And, if not, sorry, i'm just a sucker for happy endings.

I expect so many things. I expect guilt for cheating on my wife to kick in, but it doesn’t and my level of self-hatred is breaking the record. I expect Elizabeth to figure me out but she pays no mind and I’m deeply annoyed by it. But most of all I expect Elio to call. I have no reason to, he made it loud and clear, but I regularly check my answering machine anyway.

I don’t sleep well, I don’t eat, I don’t do anything appropriately and within weeks people start to notice. I get concerned looks from my wife more often than usual, even my son acts different around me as if I’m made of glass and any careless gesture could break me into pieces. The fact that my breakdown doesn’t escape a five years old’s notice makes me reconsider my demeanor so I add constant self-control on my daily to-do list.

By the end of semester I feel and, who am I kidding, look like a piece of shit. Thankfully, my wife says she doesn’t want a family gathering for her birthday, instead, she would like a weekend away with her girlfriends which is completely fine with me. I wonder, though, if she does it out of mercy or if she’s just fed up on me and my issues. I suggest taking Jack out to Kankakee River State Park, as I promised him to go camping months ago, and we both agree on that. My son is over the moon, to say the least, and I’m slightly jealous of how simple things are for him right now. Then I remind myself I’m a grown up and things are not supposed to be simple for me, or are they?

I spend two wonderful days with Jack, who seems to be blown away by the most casual things: pitching a tent, making a fire, catching a fish. But when we settle for a sleep late in the night, surrounded by deafening proximity of nature, I see sheer awe in his eyes as I tell him a bed time story, and it hits me, he’s just blown away by me. I’ve been so consumed with my inner turmoil that I completely abandoned my son without even noticing. That’s when I know this can’t go on like that anymore.

Liz comes home late in the evening on Sunday. I can hear her sneaking through the living room upstairs as I’m sitting on the terrace, having the first cigarette in almost seven years. It takes her a while to join me, and her expression changes dramatically as she spots a stub in my hand, her eyebrows jump in surprise.

“How was your trip?” I ask without so much as a hello.

“Good,” she says, crossing her arms, ‘it was good. Yours?”

“Same.”

I can feel her eyeing me as if expecting me to say something, like she already knows what’s about to happen and she’ll win a bet once I say the words.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“For what?”

  “Everything.”

She chuckles and sits opposite me extending a hand. “Give me one,” she nods towards a pack of cigarettes and now it’s my turn to raise eyebrows.

I pull out two and light them. She takes a puff and I note that she’s not an inexperienced smoker. How much do I not know about my wife?  We sit in silence for no less than ten minutes, our cigarettes long finished and forgotten, it’s just us now. It feels like the most intimate moment we’ve shared in a long time and I hate to break it but I have to.

“I’ll move out by the end of the week,” I turn my head to face her and she frowns.

“You don’t have to. I mean, I’m not staying in this house.”

“Why?”

“It’s too big for the two of us,” she shrugs, “besides, I think I want something new.”

It’s odd to hear her say it as this is her parent’s old house, this is the place she grew up in. And now she just wants to move out into nowhere. Then I think she might simply want to move on. And this place is too haunted.

“Oliver?” I can feel her biting her tongue as if she’s not sure whether she wants to ask the actual question. I nod encouraging her to go on.

“What is it?” it’s a vague question but I know exactly what she means and before I get to consider my reply I blurt, “I’m in love.”

“That I figured,” her tone is so even, like she’s not my wife but a sister or a long-term friend.

“You did?”

She gives me a chiding look, very much like one she would give our son when he misbehaves.

“I’m sorry,” I repeat foolishly.

“I know. What I don’t understand is why the hell it took you so long to make up your mind?”

“Well, I’m not even sure why I’m doing it now.”

She narrows her eye. “Let’s face it, we don’t love each other. I’m not certain we ever have. So it’s only reasonable to go be happy with someone you actually want.”

“Liz,” I make sure to enunciate every word, “I am not leaving you for another person. I’m just leaving. Our marriage, it doesn’t work, we just make each other miserable. And we’re too young for that, don’t you think? You could still find someone who’ll appreciate you and I…”

“And you?”

“And I will finally have some time to learn how to feel comfortable being myself.”

“But what about?” she can’t bring herself to finish.

I heave a sigh and she lifts her eyes filled with compassion.

“That bad?”

I smirk. Or cringe, I’m not sure. She takes my hands in hers and we sit like that until we’re shivering with cold.

 

It’s Friday night and I’m spending it in my soon-to-be old living room surrounded by cardboard boxed filled with my belongings. I think that for a guy who leads a relatively quiet and modest life I have way too much stuff. Those are my last days in this house and I make sure not to leave anything behind as I don’t want to come back here under any circumstance. 10 a.m. Sunday morning I’ll load those boxes into a truck and start a new life, with no plans, no goals, just me. Who knows, maybe that will work out?

Phone rings exactly when I’m in the middle of a maneuver, holding an awfully heavy box packed with books between my legs, desperately trying to fold it closed and secure it with duct tape. I free one hand to reach for the handset, supporting the edge of the box with my chin.

“Hello,” I’m balancing like a circus juggler adding the receiver to the scene.

“Oliver?”

I straighten and loosen my grip of the damn box, watching it slowly tip over and fall with a thud.

“Oliver, are you there?” he repeats.

I don’t know, am I?

“Yes, I’m here.”

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

Silence.

“Why are you calling?” I ask merely to fill in the void. Whatever he says, it doesn’t matter. I’ve been feeling good for the last week, finally content with my decisions and perspectives. Now he calls a month after the night at the hotel, and I hear my comfort cracking with a scathing sound. Notably, though, I don’t want to hang up on him. I don’t feel anger or bitterness; actually, I like hearing his voice. I’m sick, aren’t I?

“I....um. I’m in Chicago.”

“Good for you,” I interrupt but he interrupts me too. “I want to see you.”

“Why?” I know I’ll say yes. I would say yes to anything he asked me, I just want to know where he’s standing.

“Please?”

That sounds so much like _my Elio_ that I close my eyes and revel in it for a second.

 “Come over to my house,” I wince at my own words but it’s not the time for being picky.

“Can we meet…” he pauses, “on neutral territory?”

I look around. It doesn’t get any more neutral than that, I think to myself, but don’t say it out loud.

“Just come.”

 

He arrives in what feels like no time at all so I don’t have a chance to put myself together, not to mention, to clean up. Then, I decide the chaos in my house is pretty symbolic. The doorbell rings and I wipe my hands on pants and open the door. He looks different. I would describe it as disturbed. He’s even paler than usual and his cheeks are unhealthily hollow. Still, he’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.

“What’s going on?” he pushes me aside to inspect the hallway.

“Sorry, it doesn’t look very welcoming but I’m in the middle of moving out, so…”

I probably overdo with nonchalance in my voice as I see him narrow his eyes in suspicion.

“You’re moving out?”

“We are moving out,” I turn away avoiding his pointed look and get back to packing like nothing’s wrong.

“Why? I thought it was a family house.”

“Exactly. And we are getting a divorce, so it’s not like we’re going to need it.”

He stares at me horror-struck and speechless.

“Well, it’s not really that abrupt if you think about it,” I try to mitigate the situation but the crease in his forehead grows even deeper.

“Is it because of me?”

Everything in my life is because of you, I want to say, but that would be cruel and untrue. And no matter what I’m not feeling cruel towards him. I mean, I’m a grown-up man and I’m the one who’s responsible for everything that happens to me. It only hit me like 3 days ago that Elio is now 24, just like I was when we met, and before I went to Italy I did exactly what he’s doing right now: being charming yet unattainable, sleeping around, not caring for other people’s feelings. So that would be damn hypocritical of me to judge him.

“No,” I say with a subtle smile, “it’s because of me.”

“What about your son?” He’s still standing in the hallway, shifting from one foot to the other, his haughty demeanor all gone with the wind.

“It’s not going to be easy but I hope one day he’ll understand that doing something that feels right though it might seem wrong is not such a bad thing after all.”

He nods neurotically and I wonder if he’s agreeing with me or just having an inner dialogue in his head.

“Elio, why are you really here?” I decide to cut to the chase. It’s late and I’m tired and in no mood for playing games.

He bites his lips and there’s an entire parade of emotions on his face. There’s resentment, then annoyance, a glimpse of anguish, and on top of that shame. He looks so miserable I have an irresistible urge to hug him. I even take a couple of steps towards him but stop barely in arm’s reach. Elio looks up, eyes draining with pain, and comes closer. He leans his head on my chest, muttering something under his breath, his hands desperately clenching my shirt. I should step back, I should stop him from trailing soft kisses down my neck, I should not let him mess me up. I should do so many things. But as I feel his lips approaching mine and try to pull back he breathes ‘please’ in such an appealing tone I would probably allow him to kill me if he wanted to. So much for a grown-up man.

This time it’s different. His kiss tastes like hope, like promise even. It tastes like _my Elio_. So, surely, I give in. In some remote part of my brain I think that I don’t care how much it’s going to hurt when he leaves me again cause this is totally worth it. But upstairs in the guest bedroom, where I’ve been sleeping for the last week, it’s different as well. He makes love to me, gently, as if afraid he might break me, then he holds me, touching and kissing every single inch of my body, and it feels so overwhelmingly true that I’m no longer sure I will make it out of the ruins once he’s done with me.

We lie face to face, our legs intertwined, his fingers caressing my neck. It’s quiet and peaceful and so dark I can barely make out his face. I want him to tell me something, anything, but he looks vacant as in dreamy.

“Elio,” I start but he puts his index finger over my mouth and draws nearer.

“Hush,” he basically breathes the word into me, “hush.”

It bewilders me how helpless I feel when he kisses me. Like I only had one chance to resist him and I’ve used it up on Monet’s Berm 7 years ago. Now I can only follow wherever he takes me and hope he would have pity on me this time. Before I manage to collect my thoughts again I feel him loosen up and breathe heavily. In a matter of seconds he’s asleep.

I stay awake until dawn, not sure whether I’m more afraid to fall asleep or to wake up. I can’t help but wonder if that’s what the mornings after are always going to be like from now on: full of dread and anticipation for Elio’s awakening and subsequent actions.  How long will I hold out before it’ll tear me apart?

He fidgets next to me, rolling onto his back, and I know, the moment of clarity is here. He opens his eyes, blinks a few times then turns to face me. He stares at me for a moment and I hold my breath.

“Elio,” he murmurs with a smile and burrows his head into my neck.

I feel like I can breathe again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is from Elio's POV. Isn't it exciting?


	5. Whatever happens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I got a bit carried away with Elio. Therefore it'll take two chapters to cover his vision of the story. Hope you don't mind.   
> This chapter is pre-history and their first meeting in Chicago.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Chicago, Illinois. We will be landing at O’Hare International Airport shortly. Please make sure your seatbelts are securely fastened. Thank you.”

The flight attendant’s voice extracts me from drowsiness. I rub my eyes and suppress a tired yawn. I haven’t slept properly in a week, snatching bits of rest then and there, but never actually relax. The last three months have been exciting but very exhausting and the fact that I’m now in Chicago is not helping. I’ve been waiting for so long to come here and now I’m not sure I can do this.

Thirty minutes later I make my way through the terminal that’s heaving with people and step out into breezy air of spring Chicago. It’s weird how the presence of a single man makes you biased towards the city you’ve only set foot in. I know he’s here, well, not _here_ here, but somewhere around and we haven’t been that close to each other for what feels like a lifetime.

 

A lot has changed since the last time I saw him, I’ve changed. And over the years I’ve made it a habit to blame him for my shortcomings. I’ve never been in a decent relationship because of him, I never could truly open up to someone, not to mention to fall in love. He ruined everything for me, or so I thought.

After his call in December 1983 I’ve experienced a severe breakdown, first trying hard to hide it from my parents but surely they knew me better than I knew myself. My father had been playing along for a while until l literally slammed the fallboard after failing like a hundredth attempt on Bach.

“Elio,” he uttered, “talk to me?”

“How could he do that?” I turned on my stool to face him, tears streaming down my face. “How could anyone have what we had and then go and propose to someone else in like five seconds.”

My father’s face cracked in pain and all he managed to say was ‘I don’t know.’ And if even my father couldn’t come up with something to justify Oliver’s actions, how could I?

When I could no longer go on torturing myself with sorrow and reminiscing I went for hatred and for a very long time it really worked for me. Fueled by hate, I’ve improved my piano skills dramatically, playing mostly dark and disturbing pieces or respective transcriptions of normal ones. I could tell how much it concerned my parents but it got me accepted into the best music schools all over Europe so they let it slide in a way. They still tried to talk some sense into me but I was so high on my success that it was like, you know, in one ear…

 

I’m not proud of my behavior over the years in Paris. I remember distinctively how immersed in everything around me I felt.  I lived in a haze of music, alcohol, drugs and casual affairs. The latter came to a stop rather soon, though, as the AIDS-related deaths wave washed all over the world. I got tested and assured my parents I was okay and from that moment on I was very careful about my partners, but other than that I was pretty reckless. I basically lived in clubs and bars at night time, showing up to my classes terribly hungover. Oddly, I still did great at school, which is why my teachers had no chance to reprimand me. During my third year I started sleeping with the Assistant Professor of Music Composition, just for fun, but, for some reason, she felt obligated to me or something like that so she got me into a couple of young composer’s competitions. I was happy to participate, I even ranked second in one of them, which got me thinking that my own music was not that bad after all. She was over the moon for me, playing a supportive girlfriend part perfectly well. Or maybe she wasn’t playing, I’m not certain. But what she didn’t know was that I’d been screwing her roommate and childhood friend Dan for almost as long as I’ve been sleeping with her.

As I said, not proud of my behavior at all.

At some point I realized there was no more hatred left in me. To be more precise, there was nothing at all. I felt like a vessel, drained of its content and left unwanted. That’s when I first caught myself thinking I’d rather never have met Oliver. No matter how much pain his leaving had cost me, this thought had never crossed my mind before. I reveled in my heartbreak, I took advantage of it. But there I was, as helpless and miserable as when he left me at that train station again.

I graduated from college and decided to get a master’s degree in composition in London, which my parents were very much on board with. I spent a couple of weeks with them in the villa during that summer to make up for the lack of communication throughout the year. One night, when we had no relatives or guests over, which happened rarely, we sat at the table under linden trees, done with our meal, talking about nothing. Usually, my parents avoided questions about my personal life, probably knowing better not to ask. But perhaps because of the look on my face or my state in general, my father stared at me and said, “Elio, what are you doing?”

I furrowed pretending not to understand what he was asking but that never worked for us. Both he and my mother had a gift of seeing right through me and through other people, as a matter of fact. I closed my eyes unable to maintain eye-contact.

“I don’t know,” I honestly replied.

My mom’s eyes welled with tears and that’s when the anger wormed in. I felt like such a disappointment. They’ve given me so much and kept giving, and I’ve failed them on so many levels. That was also the first time in years when I realized that it had nothing to do with Oliver, just me. He might have hurt me but I became a dickhead on my own.

 

In London I changed my lifestyle fundamentally. I made some new friends and rehabilitated accords from the past. I visited my parents more frequently and they retaliated with enthusiasm. I still fooled around when I got bored, but I always made it very clear that it was just sex. Some thought I would change my mind once I’ve known them better and when I didn’t they called me a jerk and I never heard from them again. Thankfully, London is a huge city with a lot of opportunities for a hookup. Besides, it would surprise you how easy it is to find admirers when you don't give a fuck. And the more you act like an asshole, the more attracted to you they get. I have to indicate, though, by the end of 80s people became more careful about their health which made casual sex less casual, which I had nothing against. 

What hasn’t changed, though, was my singleness. It’s not like I didn’t want to find someone to be with, I just never came across anyone who would make me feel half of the way Oliver made me feel. Okay, not half, a quarter. That’s a flip side of a great love, that’s usually omitted. You can’t help but compare every single person you meet to the one who shook your core, and by the age of 23 I was pretty sure no one could live up to Oliver’s image.

Somehow my father managed to capture my conclusions during their short visit for my recitals as he mentioned speaking to Oliver on the phone for the first time in years. I was jolted by the sound of his name and he heaved a sigh of grief.

“I think you should talk to him,” he looked fixedly at me over his glasses.  

“What?” I couldn’t believe what he was saying.

“You need closure, maybe meeting him could help you with that.”

“And what if it doesn’t?”

“At least you tried.”

I didn’t reply but the idea got stuck in my head. Maybe once I saw him in person the curse would break, or I would realize there was no curse in the first place. Or I would see that he’s just a simple man, not an inaccessible heartthrob.

After my recitals I was offered to do a concert tour alongside other pianists, and though I’d just majored in composition I immediately accepted the offer. I’ve always wanted to see the world and I thought it was better to do that while I was young. Not to mention, participating in such project would be vital for my career. The tour was about to start in spring and would cover Europe and States, which was more than enough for me to say yes.

 

As of now, we’ve got four more concerts to do: in Chicago, in San Diego, LA and San Francisco. I haven’t made plans for afterwards, but I’m open to any suggestions, and, for the record, I’ve had a couple that caught my attention, including here, in Sates.

I get out of taxi in front of a hotel, which somehow reminds me of Oliver: tall and intimidating, at first glance, but light and warm once you’re inside. I instantly like it. To be honest, everything in Chicago reminds me of him. It seems like the entire city smells like Oliver. It’s intoxicating. I feel like a junkie going into a relapse. ‘I should be careful’, I tell myself but it’s no use since I’m already here and there’s definitely no way back.

I have no time for a nap before my rehearsal so after it all I can do is to go back to my hotel room and black out for almost 12 hours. When I wake up I think of calling him later in the evening when my concert’s done. I can’t be sure how ‘the talk’ might go so I don’t want to risk jeopardizing the quality of my performance. I find myself thinking that at that point I don’t have a sense of grudge or anger, or hatred. I’m so tired and weak, I’m not sure I’ll be able to speak up when I call him. The universe decides to spare me from having to make that call, though.

I swear I can feel his eyes on me while I’m playing and I take advantage of that feeling, making it the best performance of my life. I get a standing ovation and I know it’s well-deserved so I let myself revel in it for a moment, happy with my own playing for once. I take a bow and retreat from the stage, my heart pounding so hard it might jump out of my chest. I feel elated, almighty and exhausted. I need a cigarette and a telephone, cause it’s like now or never, but Sarah, assistant manager, intercepts me before I manage to get outside and after a long stream of praises ambushes me with a ‘mandatory dinner’ for the whole crew. I try to get myself out of it on the grounds of having dinner with friends, and when she asks ‘what friends?’ I start to convulsively look around as if hoping to find someone right on the spot. That’s when I see _him_.

He has changed a lot, to say the least. He’s grown bigger, wider, there’s no buoyancy about him anymore. He’s very solid, very mature with his well-fitted suit and a three-days-stubble. You could say he looks predatory, intimidating, if it wasn’t for his absent eyes with bags under them.

I utter ‘there he is’ to Sarah and take a couple of steps towards him, my mind completely numb. I glare at him, comparing an image of him in my head to what’s in front of me, and can’t make out how exactly I feel about him. It’s so confusing, I become enraged. I knew it couldn’t be easy, but I didn’t think I would feel nothing.

Then he opens his mouth to say ‘hi’ and I instantly wish he hadn’t. As long as he was standing there, silent, he was nothing more than a mirage, but once he spoke, his hoarse voice awakened something inside me that’s been sleeping for so long, I even forgot it’d existed. Pure excruciating pain has taken over me. It’s so sharp, I can barely keep my posture straight. I remember being stung by a scorpion once, it hurt like hell, but this… this is so much worse. All the memories I’ve buried in the recesses of my subconscious with such difficulty emerge to the surface with lightning speed and I only have time to remind myself to breathe. ‘Don’t cry’ I tell myself, ‘don’t fucking dare to cry’. I neither extend my hand for a handshake, nor go for a friendly hug. No way in hell I’m touching him.

 I hear my own voice asking him a question while my mind goes back to reality. He looks tensed and anxious, and I notice he uses ‘I’ instead of ‘we’ when he replies. I inquire about his wife and his jaw stiffens. She’s waiting for him, he says, and to my surprise, I’m not jealous. Maybe, I’m just still in shock. He invites me for dinner and before I know it I say ‘yes’. There’s a distinctive exquisiteness in the torture of being next to him, I could take my time relishing it. Then, I catch myself thinking this is the most intense I’ve felt in years. Since _him_ , actually. It must be sad to realize I can only be affected by one person, but right now I don’t care. I need to experience all that, to see how far I can go, how far he can go. Whatever happens, happens.

We approach his wife and when she turns to face us, I gasp in awe. She’s breathtakingly gorgeous. I can’t tell which one of them is better looking. People must hate them when they see them together, such a perfect couple. Yet, I’m not convinced. I don’t sense anything between them. The idea of Oliver having sex with that woman is so preposterous, it makes me cringe. Instead, I smile approvingly. It’s so easy to be nice to her, it’s even more so when I notice sheer frustration on Oliver’s face. Oddly, he’s the one to look jealous. We agree on having dinner tomorrow night at their house and say goodbyes.

It’s 4 a.m. and I’m tossing and turning in bed, replaying the previous evening. Something’s been bugging me for hours and it’s only now when I finally figured out what it was. He’s not happy. I mean, I know how it works. He could’ve played nonchalant and awkward just so that I wouldn’t have gotten hurt. But I know him. And he wasn’t playing. This whole ‘perfect family life’ is so not him. He might have thought it was 7 years ago, but over time he had to face the truth. And the truth is, he a hostage in his own prison. I don’t feel sorry for him, though, I feel mad. He preferred this to what we had. He’s made his bed, and now we all lie in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your kudos and comments, I appreciate every single one of them.


	6. Homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A ridiculously long chapter warning. In my defence, i was basically given green light after the last one so... sorry not sorry.
> 
> Elio's POV. 
> 
> Enjoy!

‘You’ll be fine. It’s just a dinner. You’ll be fine’ I repeat a mantra in my head. I haven’t slept all night. I’ve spent almost 20 hours in an uproar and ended up scolding myself for saying ‘yes’ to that damn dinner. I wanted to talk to him, but I never wanted to meet his family. How do you seat for hours eating and talking to a wife of a man who broke your heart and you never actually got over? How do you look his son in the face, knowing you could never compete with the love they share? I guess that’s what I’m most afraid of – realizing that, no matter what we had, I could never be enough.

I am late, but not too late. It took me a bit longer to put on my usual ‘ _bon vivant’_ mask but I must have done well as he almost gasps at the sight of me. He takes the bottle of wine from my hands and lowers his eyes, which helps me a lot. Somehow seeing him losing it gives me strength. I greet his wife and say ‘hello’ to his son, Jack, who hides behind Oliver. I can see he likes me but he’s too afraid or too shy to show it. Like father, like son.

The dinner is weird. It’s like a bad play in a third rate theater: forced and overacted. The wife is playing the perfect lady of the house, all smiley and polite. She might be really nice, but I can’t be objective about her, plus, she’s trying way too hard. Oliver, on the other hand, is being Oliver. That’s what I’ve learned about him over his first weeks in Italy – when he didn’t know how to manage a situation he would use some kind of a cover-up. He used to hide behind his _muvi star_ attitude, now he has a son as a shield. Every single time our eyes meet he looks away and turns his attention towards Jack. It’s both amusing and annoying. Why invite me for dinner if you can’t even look me in the face?  Before I leave I ask him to meet me for drinks wondering if he accepts the challenge. Surprisingly, he does and on my way to the hotel I think of what I’m going to say when I finally have a chance to talk to him tet-a-tet.

At night I can’t sleep again. I toss and turn for hours, then I give up and go out on the balcony to have a cigarette. This jet lag thing really gets me. I have an important meeting in the morning and I can’t look like shit which is exactly what I’m going to look like if I don’t get some sleep. There’s just so much going on my mind, I feel like my head’s about to explode. I can’t stop thinking about him. Why can’t I stop thinking about him? He left me. No matter how that turned out for him, it’s his life now. He’s moved on. Yet, I still want him. How pathetic is that?

The meeting goes rather well, though. Somehow I manage to make a good impression on the director of a small-budget independent film. He is British and he’s heard about me from our mutual acquaintance. This is his first full-length feature film and he figured it was the right thing to find a young composer as well. After watching first edited bits I’m sure I’m the guy for the job. I mean, it’s a pure drama and, let’s face it, I’m a drama king. We specify the details and set a deadline according to which I have a month. I don’t think it’ll take me that long, though, cause, when motivated, I work like crazy.

Hours later, I sit in the bar, consumed with my thoughts completely. I’ve had a good nap after the meeting so I’m well-rested and ready to process the food for thought and future work. I love creating music. Having spent years transcribing other composers’ pieces, I’ve developed my own style. What I make is usually raw and exuding emotions. It’s pretty much a reflection of me, a _pre-Oliver_ me… 

I’ve always divided my life in two parts: before _him_ and after. I never managed to identify a brief period between two parts, when we were _ElioOliver-OliverElio_ , so I normally refer to it as _interlude_ , probably too scared to admit that those were the only two weeks I actually lived. 

His voice brings me back to reality. The reality, where I act nonchalant and unaffected by him. He caught me off-guard, so I rush into my couldn’t-care-less mode, definitely overdoing it. He notices and I have no choice but to defy him. Oddly, he winces. Like that day, on Monet’s Berm. And I know all I need to do is keep pushing. He’s lost his skills and I’m at the top of my game. He doesn’t stand a chance. I lean closer as we exchange phrases in what seems like accusatory tone and he stops breathing, his eyes wide with panic and something else. It takes me a moment to realize that he looks infatuated… with me.

This is so not what I expected. Two previous nights he was rather annoyed with me, though I could catch glimpses of affection, more like how an ex-lover looks at you when reminiscing about good old days, but that was it. I attributed his behavior – averted eyes, covering up and not really speaking to me – to shame, cause that’s what I basically came here for: to know that he feels bad for what he’d done to me. I needed him to let me go. I needed me to let it go. I never needed him to want me back, did I? I mean, he’s married, he’s got a child. He can’t look at me like _that_. I try to deflect the course of conversation off the slippery slope in the safer direction, but that look on his face haunts me. It terrifies me to think how good it felt to have him looking at me like _that_ again. He asks me about my father and says he’s glad nothing has changed between us. ‘Some things never do’ I overuse ambiguity and instantly tell myself off for that. He doesn’t pull away, though. I can see he’s having some kind of internal conflict and I decide to cut it out. I’m not sure where it’s all going, and I don’t feel like I know where I want it to be going.

For some reason we agree to meet again, though our meetings don’t seem comfortable and fruitful. There’s always a sense of understatement and longing for more. I feel like I’m walking on the edge of an abyss, blindfolded, and every step forward might be the last.

 

He’s making pizza for dinner. Can you believe this guy? I walk in on him, covered with flour, and normally I would burst into laughter but I’m too startled by how much he’s willing to impress me. I’ve made a promise to myself to behave and he is not helping. I stroll through his living room, inspecting the evidence of his picture-perfect family. No matter how much I try, my image of him doesn’t fit in here. Of course, he might have changed, and I might be delusional about his hidden cravings, but as I turn to face him, his gaze is very much lucid.

After a couple of beers he’s visibly more relaxed and I’m alarmingly light-headed. I feel like smoking but he won’t join me. He doesn’t smoke anymore, he says. ‘Good boy’ I reply. It’s such a low blow but I just can’t help myself. All this righteousness looks ridiculous on him. He tenses and dives into the armchair. I ask him about his wife and, to my surprise, he doesn’t beat around the bush but spills the truth. He doesn’t sound sad or annoyed with the way things are as though this is how it’s supposed to be. I, on the other hand, take it too personal. That’s what I do, when I’m drunk, I go to extremes. Usually, I become angry or pathetic, now I just can’t stop talking as if I’ve got too much on my plate and I have an urge to get that off my chest. Perfect timing, Elio.

He listens to me carefully, but when I finally pause to catch my breath, he gives a whole speech in one go. He basically lectures me on relationships. One thing doesn’t escape my attention, though. ‘If you do find love’, he says, ‘don’t repeat my mistake, fight for it’. What is that, a direct call to action? I don’t have time to contemplate as my body’s moving on its own, primarily driven by reflexes. The entire universe shrinks to a single man in front of me, ready to explode at any point. I kiss him. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it. I’ll beat myself up later, I think, closing my eyes and inhaling his scent. As brief and superficial as it is, it’s not just a kiss, it’s a little death. I draw back before it’s too late and meet his pleading eyes. I leave before he regains the power of speech.

Instead of going to the hotel I hit the bar. I can tell I won’t be able to fall asleep so I decide to drink myself into oblivion. But no matter how much I ingest, my conscience still remains unclouded. I replay him, first this changed version of him, lifeless and malleable, then _my_ version of him, lighthearted and ready to meet the challenge. I didn’t know how to get to him back then, now I don’t know how to get away. I’ve spent years detached from people, who probably did not deserve it, and the only person I shouldn’t give in to I seem to not be able to resist. I feel like this trip is going to leave me more wrecked than I was before. After all, I knew it was a risky idea.

I spend morning half asleep and hungover. When I wake up, sort of, my head’s splitting and I feel like I might throw up at any second. At least I’m distracted from thinking of Oliver. I swear to myself not to drink anymore, as I always do the morning after a good bender, knowing that as soon as the after-effect wears off I won’t bother to keep my promise. I drag myself out to get some air, and it really works, as I black out as soon as I’m back to my room.

It takes me a while to realize that the phone’s ringing. It takes me even longer to grasp what the woman on the phone is telling me.

 “There’s a man in the lobby and he’s asking if everything is alright with you”, she says.

“A man?”

“Yes, his name is,” a pause, “Oliver.”

“Oh,” I sit up on the bed, now fully awake, “tell him he can come up. If he wants to.”

She repeats my words and then says to me, “He is coming up.”

I don’t have the time to process what’s happening, I don’t even have the time to panic. I open the door and there he is, looking kinda aggravated and… possessed? Back in Italy I wanted to dissect his brain to take a peek on what’s going on in his mind. Now I want to hide from his eyes, afraid he might read me like an open book as I’m not in shape right now. But he seems not to notice my state, moreover, he acts weird. He’s at loss like he’s not sure what he’s doing here. I brush my teeth and use the moment to get a grip. I turn to face him, catching his gaze sliding down my bare chest. Whatever he actually came for is probably long forgotten as his eyes grow dark and blind with desire. I hope he doesn’t play poker anymore cause he sucks at keeping it together.

This whole scene feels so surreal, like a part of a dream, that I don’t take it seriously. I don’t believe he’ll actually make a move, so when he does, it sweeps me off my feet. And boy, does he make that move. Never have I ever seen him like this, wild and ravishing. Nor have I imagined a brutal, violent version of Oliver. Yet there it is. He’s basically eating me alive and though I retaliate respectively, there’s an internal battle I can’t put to a stop or at least muffle. I’m furious, with him for catching me off-guard, but more with myself for not even trying to fight him. I know I would lose anyway, but at least my conscience would be clear.

‘Just one night,’ I convince myself, ‘to get him out of my system’. I know that’s not how it works, but I also know that I’m going to hate myself for that moment of weakness forever. In fact, I can feel hatred intensifying inside me here and now, feeding my frenzy, which is why I can’t look him in the face. I’ve spent so many nights with faceless people dreaming of him, and here I am, yielding to our mutual desire. Then why the hell does this feel so wrong?

I look up at him, leaning back, and it finally hits me – he is a simple man, there’s nothing divine about him, it was me who elevated and glorified him simply inured to thinking I wasn’t good enough. Realizing it isn’t helping, though, as now, knowing that we’re equals, I might start to hope that this time he could pick me. No, better not go there.

His hastiness forces me out of my train of thoughts. The way my body responds to him… It’s not fair. His touch is almost hurtful, yet I long for more, infinitely more. He slips off my jeans and underwear in one swift move and all I can feel is the hotness of his mouth around my cock. It comes so abruptly and feels so good I almost choke on my own moan. I don’t even realize at first that I am the source of that moan as it sounds like someone has been stubbed, probably to death. At least, I don’t mumble anything in the pre-orgasm haze, though I can taste the words on the tip of my tongue – I missed you so much, Oliver.

 

He’s sleeping peacefully, cocooned in the blanket, faint smile on his face. I, on the other hand, can’t even bring myself to close my eyes as there’s nothing peaceful about me. As soon as he dozed I felt panic building up and increasing exponentially. I disengage myself from his grip and relocate into the armchair by the window. I need to think and it’s hard to do that with his breath tickling my neck.

 It’s safe to say whatever I’ve come here for I’ve failed miserably. This is barely the closure that I was supposed to have according to my father. It seems like time and distance haven’t diminished one iota what I used to feel for him. I still want him and I’m pretty sure it’ll never change.  The question is, what am I supposed to do about that? I’m so lost, I feel like I’m back in math class, trying to solve an equation with multiple unknown variables and failing because my brain is simply not designed for this kind of things. I could beg him to choose me, but he made his choice years ago. What makes me think he’ll do otherwise this time? After all, he has a family now, and no matter how things stand between them, he’s got a wife to come home to and a son to take care of. What do I have to offer? An affair? That would be like going on a suicide mission. Seeing him intermittently, having to share him with someone else, knowing I’m never his priority and dying a little bit inside every time he leaves me to live his own life? How long would it take me to collapse?

The truth is, I know exactly what I have to do as the answer lies beneath the surface. I should leave and never come back. Though I’m not sure whether I have the power to walk away from him. The very thought of never seeing him again turns my stomach. I wonder how he would react. Would he be sad? Or angry? Or simply relieved to be spared from having to resolve. 

I haven’t cried in years and now I feel like it. ‘There’re consequences to everything’, I tell myself, ‘suck it up and deal with it.’

In the morning, when he storms off after a brief but very intense exchange, I do burst into tears. I cry in taxi on my way to the airport, I cry in the departure lounge, merely unable to cease as if the tears that had been piling up have finally found a release and now won’t stop until I’ve cried them all out.

 

It’s the first time ever I hate to be back in London. To be honest, I would probably equally hate to be elsewhere. I’m sick, lonely and hopeless. Basically, I’m back to square one. I fight the urge to call my dad to find some comfort. Instead, I find it in work.

 Two weeks later I have a meeting with James, the film director, to submit the first outline of the score. He’s pretty skeptical about me handing in so soon, but after the first listen his doubts dissipate.

“Damn, you really are as good as they told me,” he exclaims.

I act flattered but I know it’s true. I’ve put all of me into it and ended up finding some sort of a rebound. The piece that’s supposed to be the main theme is essentially bleeding heartbreak. James is ecstatic. I can’t help but wonder if I could create something as perfectly heart-wrenching if I were happy. At least, my love failure comes in handy.

I decide to spend a week before going to Chicago with my parents in Italy. I have to make some adjustments before I present the final version and I think I could use some fresh air and a piece of fatherly advice. My mother is absolutely in love at first note. My father, however, could always read into things.

“So, how did it go?” he asks once we’re all alone in the library.

One look at him and he knows.

“I fucked up,” I drop my head, not daring to look him in the eye, “I fucked up really bad.”

“Is there any way you could make it up to him?” There’s no judgment in his voice. How come he’s always so understanding?

“I don’t know.”

Is there?

“I’m sure you’ll find your way around it.”

He strokes my cheek with an encouraging smile and I realize once again that Oliver was right - I am lucky.

 

I call him the minute I enter my hotel room after a long day of meetings. I’m dog-tired, but I know if I don’t make that call now I’ll begin to have second thoughts and it won’t end well. He doesn’t hang up on me immediately which is a good sign. ‘I want to see you’, I say and it takes him a moment to respond. “Why?”

Because I missed you. Because a voice in my head, sounding just like yours, has been telling me that you missed me too. Because that damn voice has made me believe you’ve been waiting for me to call you. So here I am, calling you, not really sure what to say.

“Please?”

 It’s all I manage to say before I get choked up.

He doesn’t say ‘no’. He says ‘come over’ instead and it doesn’t sound like he’s bearing a grudge against me. I don’t know whether it’s a good thing or bad.

I’m not prepared for how much he’s changed over such a short period of time. He’s not an insecure neurotic from a month before but a resolute man, very much like he was in Italy. By the way he acts and speaks I can tell he’s come to terms with himself and it makes me jealous because I’ve spent years trying but never even came close to it.

And then he turns my world upside down with a single phrase, thrown briskly, - ‘we’re getting a divorce.’ I go deaf. And blunt. And terrified. And a million other things all at once.  How can he say it so casually? How can such a horrible word embody so much hope? How can I hope he’ll want anything to do with me after all? I’m being torn apart and I can almost hear my smooth façade cracking. It doesn’t escape his notice and I see, from the corner of my eye, him moving towards me, freezing hesitantly halfway. Despite my recent behavior, he literally oozes sympathy, and when I throw myself into his arms he doesn’t retreat. He doesn’t fully cave in either, obviously not ready to let down his guard entirely. “I’m sorry,” I mumble into his neck, not sure if he catches that. I want to kiss all his wounds better, regardless of whether it was me who caused them or not. I want him to never have been hurt in the first place. He winces at my lips touching his, and I’m all ready to beg him. I don’t have to, though, as something unwinds in him in a split second and he surrenders to me altogether.

 

I wake up dazzled by the sun and it takes me a while to realize that the curtains aren’t closed. What is more, there’re no curtains to begin with. I squint and look at my hand watch, it’s almost 10 a.m. Oliver’s head is resting on my shoulder and judging by the sounds he’s making he’s in a deep sleep. However, when I try to sneak out of bed he pulls me towards him possessively, burying his head into my neck. I bite his earlobe softly, not sure if I really want to wake him but he already shifts against me.

“What are you doing?” he growls with fake displeasure.

“I’m hungry,” I nip his neck playfully and he laughs.

“I’m sleeping,” he feigns a yawn and then breaks into a real one.

“Never would’ve taken you for a sleepy head.”

“What time is it?”

“It’s 10.”

“So I’ve been sleeping for three hours now. So much for a sleepy head.”

“What?” I lean on my shoulder to get a good look at him.

“I couldn’t fall asleep,” he shrugs with another yawn.

“Why?”

He gives me the look and I remember. I woke up earlier and he was awake. Has he been awake all night?  Then it hits me, he’s probably just been afraid to doze off not knowing what to expect from me in the morning. I lean in to him and kiss his temple.

“Go back to sleep,” I rub my cheek against his.

“No,” he protests lazily, “I really should get up. I still have some packing to do.”

“When are you moving out?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“I could help you pack and move. If you want me to.” The last bit has nothing to do with moving and he knows that. It might not sound very transparent but he was always good at reading between the lines. He merely nods but there’s so much more to it.

“Sleep,” I wrap my arms around him, ready to protect him from any trouble and to start making up for the ones I’ve caused him myself.


	7. To want to touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No more angst for these two, just pure bliss. 
> 
> Oliver's POV
> 
>  
> 
> P.S. Sorry I haven't updated in a long time - I've been super busy this week. 
> 
> Thank you for your comments and kudos, they give me life!

Elio’s sitting in my kitchen, sipping coffee from my mug, reading my copy of Eco’s ‘ _Foucault's Pendulum’._ It’s weird to see him, surrounded by my things, easily fitting in. Like he’s always been here. Consumed with the book, he frowns pensively, chewing his third sandwich and wiping bread crumbs off the table. I marvel at every tiny gesture of his, simply not able to take my eye off him.

“What?” He lifts his head, sensing my gaze.

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“You’re adorable.”

He snorts and dog-ears the page.

“So, where would you like to take me?”

He’s sitting there shirtless and barefoot, wearing only his washed-out jeans, and I know exactly where I would like to take him. The look on my face must be quite eloquent as he laughs happily, throwing back his head.

“Your bedroom might be my favorite place in Chicago, but it’s not what I mean.”

“In Chicago?” I raise my brows in fake disbelief and he shrugs playfully, standing up to put his mug into the sink.

I relocate myself unconsciously, my body following his as if he were the Sun and I were simply orbiting around him, my eyes glued to him, sliding down his beautiful face to his delicate collarbone, to the smoothness of his chest and lower, infinitely lower. He chuckles and shakes his head.

“That’s it, I’m putting a shirt on,” he rushes to the bedroom.

“Like that’s going to help you,” I get up to follow him.

“And here I thought I was the horny one,” he throws my shirt on.

It’s been three days since I moved and we’ve been inseparable. We never got to unpack any of my stuff. We barely left the flat.  We mostly stayed in bed, our bodies and minds entwined, taking our time to relearn each other again. Still I’m not even close to being sated.

“First of all, we should get you checked out of the hotel,” I’m looming up to him, taking my steps one at a time like a hunter drawing his prey into a trap.

“Okay, and then what?” He’s playing along, backing away and bumping into the footboard. He collapses on the bed with an innocent smile and I crash onto him with a beastly growl.

“Hey, we’re in the middle of a conversation here,” he’s fidgeting, faking resistance, which turns me on even more.

“Shut up,” I silence him with a ravaging kiss.

He responds with all of his body, convulsing under me, pressing his hips closer, melting into my touch irretrievably. I break the kiss and meet his piercing gaze, shivers dancing down my spine, and here it comes again, a desperate need to say something to him, something that really matters. Something I wanted to say like a dozen times over the last four days but couldn’t bring myself up to. And once again, I can’t. It’s so stupid. I’ve built my career on saying and writing things that are not just hard to understand but to verbalize. Still, I can’t say the easiest words to the person that means the world to me. And just like all those times before he senses my inner turmoil and saves me, changing the mood back to playful, grabbing my collar and pulling me closer for another feverish kiss. I follow hesitantly, slightly disappointed by my half-heartedness and his excessive lenience.

“Are you going to fuck me or not?” He hisses through his teeth.

“I thought we were in the middle of something.” My left hand palms his arousal.

“I don’t give a…”

I don’t let him finish. I feed on his mouth, swallowing his moans, and let him roll us over so that he would end up on top. He moves so fast I can hardly keep up, and before I know it he’s fully naked and ready to ride me. I notice that he didn’t bother to reach for the lube, but when I do, he intercepts me.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” I rise up on my elbows to get closer to him.

“What if I want you to?”

“Elio…”

He places his hands on my cheeks and searches my eyes.

“Remember the night at the hotel?”

I nod. Of course, I remember. I was driven by pure ire so I wasn’t really thinking what I was doing. Definitely not my best moment.

“It was pretty rough and I kinda liked it,” he flushes and bows his head, “Actually, I liked it a lot. I think it’s the most intense thing I’ve ever felt.”

“You are the horny one,” I lift his chin and place a short kiss on his lips. He hums in response.

I trace his mouth with my index finger and he darts out his tongue to follow it.

“Suck it,” I command, my voice heavy with lust.

He engulfs my fingers with enviable enthusiasm, his eyes locked on mine. When I can’t wait any longer I touch his ring piece, sliding softly into him, to test the waters. He doesn’t twitch, on the contrary, his body seems to loosen up as he leans closer to reach my lips. He rolls his eyes when his tightness closes up around my cock, taking time to adjust, but once he does it feels like nothing can’t stop him.

“Does it feel as good for you as it feels for me?” He presses his forehead to mine and his hot breath burns my face.

“Elio, look at me,” I demand. “I want you to keep your eyes open when I cum inside you.”

“Oliver…” he stutters and I know exactly what he wants to say.

“I know,” I hold his face gently, “I know.”

 

You forget things when you’re high on happiness. You forget that life’s still exactly the same for other people. You forget there are other people around you. You forget your soon-to-be-ex-wife is one of those people living in this very city. So naturally we bump into her. In the Museum of Contemporary Art, of all places. She’s been asking me to go for months but I’d just wave her off for I’m not a fan of modern art. And here we are, exploring the exhibition, she’s with her sister and I’m with a man, I would follow to the end of the earth. It happens out of the blue and I don’t have time to play it cool. One look at us is all it takes and she knows. I grow numb with panic. She approaches us, her head tilted in apparent curiosity, and before I get to open my mouth she goes, “Well, this explains a lot.” Elio takes a step forward in a somewhat defensive manner but she smiles softly at him and strokes his shoulder. I exhale with relief, fighting the urge to hug her. Her reaction makes everything so much easier. I mean, I never thought she was prejudiced, but you can never know when it comes to these things.

We exchange a few words and say goodbyes. Before we go our separate ways, though, she takes my hand and, after making sure Elio can’t hear her, utters, eyeing me fixedly, “The way he looks at you…” she shakes her head vigorously, “Don’t screw it up.”

 

“I still think I should take you to the airport.”

 I wipe Elio’s hair with a huge towel as he turns to face me.

“But you can’t which is fine,” he removes the towel from my hands and throws it on the bed, “I’m going to be fine. Besides, we wouldn’t be able to have a proper goodbye at the terminal so we could have it here and now.”

He gets on his tip toes to kiss me and I feel like I physically can’t let him go. The kiss escalates too fast and he pulls back with a growl.

“Maybe not such a good idea,” he takes a moment to catch his breath.

“I could give you a ride. I don’t have to leave the car if you don’t want me to,” I almost beg him.

“Oliver,” he pants in frustration,” as much as I’d like that we both know you can’t. You have a meeting. It’s important for you. It’s work. Remember work?”

I don’t remember anything but him. I think, he _is_ the Sun and being too close to him has made me short-sighted. All I can see is him, everything else is just a vague blur.

“I could call in sick.”

That would be a half lie as I do feel sick. The very idea of him leaving me again, even temporarily, turns my stomach.

“Hey,” Elio cups my chin to make eye-contact, “I’ll be back in two weeks, it’s not that long. You won’t even notice.”

“Yeah, right.” This comes more bitter than it was supposed to be and he cradles me, kissing my forehead, my eyelids, my cheekbones.

“I don’t want to go,” he whispers into my hair, “You know that, right?”

I nod shortly and wrap my arms around him.

“But you have to.”

“But I have to.”

It’s not helping, though. The last two weeks were surreal. I never even got to stop for a second to contemplate a thought of him going away and the news of his soon departure hit me like a locomotive. I wonder if I ever get used to what our life is going to be like – him, constantly leaving, me, desperately waiting. Nevertheless, this is totally worth it. Even if our rendezvous always feel like stolen, even if we spend more time apart than together, even if I can never have him all to myself, this is absolutely worth it.

 

I wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of my front door opening and immediately sit up on my bed. The clock on my nightstand shows 3:21. What the hell? I gave Elio my keys when he left but he’s in London, he must be, we talked last morning. Still, I can hear faint fidgeting coming from the hallway. I am pumped to get on my feet and find the source of disturbance when I hear a thud, unmistakably caused by a suitcase, followed by Elio’s snakelike ‘shit’ right outside my bedroom door. He’s trying so hard not to wake me that I decide to lay back and pretend sleeping.

He tip toes into the room and without taking off his clothes crawls into bed. He smells like cold, and airplane, and Elio, and I can barely keep myself from smiling. I want to look at him, to hold him, to ask how come he’s here when he’s supposed to participate in this big thing he wouldn’t shut up about.

He leans in close enough for me to feel his shuddering breath on my face and heaves a heavy sigh.

“I am so in love with you,” he mutters and I can’t keep my eyes closed anymore.

I’m overwhelmed by how much I like it. It would seem to be an ordinary phrase, people say it to each other every day, dozen times a day. But having heard it from his mouth, I feel elated, light as a feather. All my troubles and doubts seem to have evaporated.

“You’re awake,” he gasps in panic, “I didn’t mean to bother you. I’m so sorry.”

He mumbles as he always does when he’s unnerved.

“I love you, too,” I move closer and his face breaks into a smile.

Elio stares at me for a while, then climbs on top and kisses me. The confession undoes something in him and the change is almost palpable. It’s the first time ever he kisses me like he owns me. Which he surely does. But no matter how passionate and devouring all our previous kisses have been, it always felt like he silently asked me ‘can I?’ Now he doesn’t ask, he claims me. And it’s the best feeling in the world, _being his_.

 

“You should get some sleep,” Elio fidgets in my arms, trying to slide off me, but I won’t let him.

“Don’t go,” I wrap my arms around him in tight grip.

“I’m not going anywhere, I’ll just take off my clothes.”

“I don’t mind your clothes on.”

“That’s new,” he chuckles and bites my shoulder.

“I just can’t seem to stop touching you.” It sounds like I’m trying to justify myself.

“It figures,” he plants an open-mouth kiss on the bitten spot.

“What?”

I can feel his lips form a smile.

“Nothing.”

“What?”

He disengages himself from my embrace and lays next to me, his hand supporting his head.

“Stanislavski, a Russian theatre practitioner, was once asked to describe love by the verb. He was offered different options like ‘to give flowers’, ‘to gaze devouringly’, ‘to be euphoric’, but his answer was very specific. ‘To love,’ he said, ‘is to want to touch.’”

“You do know everything,” I seize his right hand and intertwine his fingers with mine.

“No,” he curls up by my side and puts our hands on my chest, “but I think he was right.”

“Yes.”

 

“Oliver,” he barely raises his voice after what feels like hours of silence.

“Hm?”

“Don’t stop touching me.”

I shift to be able to look him in the face. He holds my gaze, his eyes screaming with plea.

“Never.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is going to be the last and it's almost finished so it won't take me so long to post this time.


	8. I only see you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know it took me forever to update. I've had a crazy month and re-written this chapter at least three times (and still not sure i'm 100% happy with it). Anyway, there it is. 
> 
> Elio's POV.

“You could come with me, you know?”

I leave a trail of wet kisses down Oliver’s chest as I glide over his body effortlessly. He doesn’t bother to respond, too busy unzipping my pants. I never got to undress at night and now he is all eager to fix it.

“Oliver?”

“Don’t get distracted,” he growls, getting a firm grip on my cock.

“I could say the same to you,” I move lower and kiss the upper part of his inner thigh.

His taste and smell are so intoxicating, I feel like a drunk on the wagon going into a liquor store.

“Have you crossed the ocean to argue with me?” He sounds rapturous and I’m surprised he can talk at all.

“No,” I murmur and run my mouth down his length, pulling his testicles gently.

I don’t go down on him a lot as usually he’s ahead of me but now I’m more than willing to make it up to him. The way he squirms and repeats ‘fuck, fuck, fuck’ under his breath makes me think I could cum sooner than he does, which is not an option. I want to bring him to the edge, I want to make him ablaze with desire, I want him to sob and howl and beg me to finish him. I want to make him feel exactly how me makes me feel every time he takes me in and I want it to be merciless and disgraceful.

I slide up and down his cock with my tongue, then lick his balls thoroughly and go lower to his sweet spot. As the tip of my tongue touches it he whines and I can feel his whole body shudder.

“That’s it,” I grin against his crotch and push my tongue inside him.  He’s tossing in agony as I make my way into him, my fingers stroking his dick.

“Elio,” he whimpers, fisting the sheets, “I want you inside me.”

“I know,” I lick between his buttocks and swallow him down to his base.

“Please,” he almost cries and I’m defeated by my own helplessness.

He cums after a couple of thrusts, his body sagging in exhaustion while I take my time, moving slowly like in a trance. We rest for a while, no parts of our bodies touching, then I break the silence.

“I meant what I said earlier.”

“About?”

“About you coming with me.”

“It’s not like I don’t want to,” he wiggles.

“What then?”

“You’ll need to practice and my presence would distract you.”

“I can stay focused if I want to,” I pout defensively.

“Yeah, sure,” he bursts into laughter.

“Want a bet?”

He rolls over onto me, pushing me hard into the mattress, holding my arms above my head.

“Still want to make that bet?” he inquires licking my lips.

“I can’t stand being away from you,” I say quietly, my voice exudes tenderness.

He lets go of my hands and grabs my face instead, covering it with light kisses.

 

“How on earth did they let you leave in the first place?”

Oliver pours coffee in two mugs and pushes one towards me.

“I said I really needed to go.”

“That’s it?”

“Well, I was very anxious. And they’ve never seen me anxious about anything but music, so they figured I did need to go. I have to be back by Monday, though. Otherwise, Michael’s gonna eat me alive.”

“Who’s Michael?”

“He’s the conductor. Asshole but genius. Not a big fan of mine, to put it mildly. Says, I’m given too much credit.”

“Does it bother you?”

“I don’t know,” I shrug indefinitely, “He’s a great musician and I respect him. Besides, he’s a big deal in Philharmonic Society so I wouldn’t want to have issues with him. Anyway, don’t change the subject.”

He raises his arms in a defensive manner. “Alright, alright, I’ll go.”

 

I’m not sure if I’m allowed to but I take him to the rehearsal with me. I know he’ll love it there and I want him to meet some of my colleagues. Everyone is so hyped, I have no trouble walking him backstage. He whistles at the sight of the stage perfectly arranged for a full-sized orchestra to play. ‘Would it be very wrong if I sucked you off right by that piano when everyone is gone?’ he breathes into my ear. I roll my eyes but my cock twitches at the sound of those words.

As usual, his presence does something to me. I feel his glare on my skin, filled with pride and lust and adoration, and thrive on it. I merge with his love and my music. I outdo myself. When we finish my fellows approach to express their applause. Even Michael can’t seem to find anything to pick on me about.

‘Do you think you can do it one more time?’ he says and it’s the closest thing to an approval I ever got from him.

‘I’ll do my best,” I reply, looking around to find Oliver.

He makes his way through the stage keeping his eyes fixed on me.

“Did you like it,” I ask once he’s by my side, feeling slightly childish. He doesn’t respond simply frowning as though saying ‘seriously?’.

“And you are?” Michael eyes Oliver from head to toe, his expression unreadable.

“Oh, he’s with me,” I play my best nonchalant shrug, “I hope it’s okay.”

“Of course,” he nods affirmatively. That’s weird.

“I’m Oliver,” Oliver’s tone is icy as fuck.

“Michael.”

Something’s not right about this moment but I can’t capture what exactly it is.

“We should go,” I pull Oliver’s sleeve like a child and he turns in a different direction.

“See you tomorrow,” Michael smiles.

Wait. What? I didn’t even know he could smile.

 

On our way to my place Oliver is silent. He enters the flat and immediately rushes into the bathroom, slamming the door with such vigor I freeze in the hallway thunderstruck. What happened? What did I do wrong?  I felt so euphoric after the rehearsal I didn’t pay attention to anything. He leaves the bathroom and walks right past me without a second glance.

When I join him in bed 15 minutes later he’s lying flat on his back staring at the ceiling. He neither moves towards me nor turns to face me.

“Oliver,” tears are ringing in my voice, “talk to me.”

“You and Michael,” words stick in his throat, “have you ever?”

“What?”

He finally looks at me, his eyes leaking pain.

“No,” I shake my head negatively. “Why would you even ask?”

“He’s into you.”

“No, he’s not,” the thought of him actually liking me is ridiculous.

“Of course, he is. It’s obvious. Everyone can see it.”

“What are you talking about?” I frown nervously.

“I heard violinists gossiping. They think you’re sleeping with him.”

“Those idiots can go fuck themselves.” I literally spit the words out.

“Elio,” he speaks softly, “are you telling me the truth?”

I grab him tightly as if willing to squeeze all the doubts and suspicions out of him and take a deep breath. I knew the moment would come sooner or later, I guess it has. We haven’t gotten to ‘the talk’ yet. Actually, we haven’t discussed anything at all, keeping this thing between us very light and simple. I didn’t want to scare him off by confessing what I felt for him. I mean, I did say I loved him but that was just a tip of the iceberg. The truth is, I’m not even sure I can describe the whole palette of feelings inside me and even less sure he’s ready for my revelation. It’s easy to overdo affection when you finally get to be with the person you’ve spent years pining for and the last thing I want is to blow it by smothering him. But he looks so anxious that I choose to speak.

“You don’t need to worry. I love you.” I resist the urge to hide my face knowing how important it is to maintain eye contact now. “I never stopped loving you despite you didn’t choose me, despite you didn’t wait for me. Despite you didn’t wait at all. Despite how much I wanted to, I never stopped loving you. Even when I tried I couldn’t and it almost ruined me. But it’s not your fault, by no means. That’s just what I do, I obsess with the things I love and when it comes to you I go to extremes in my obsession. So, like I said you don’t need to worry. There’s no one else cause I only see you.”

He stays silent, his eyes wandering over my face, and I roll on my back heaving a sigh. I didn’t expect him to respond when I decided to speak out. I mean, how do you respond to something like that?

“I’m scaring the shit out of you, aren’t I?” My voice sounds somewhat alien even to me.

“I’m sorry…”

“You don’t have to…”

“For what I did,” he cuts me off, “I thought… I don’t know what I thought. I just didn’t think what we had was so…”

“Fatal?”

He swallows hard and I’m not sure I want this conversation to go on. Though, apparently, he does.

“I never meant to hurt you.”

He still neither looks at me nor touches me so I pull away and embrace myself defensively. It doesn’t escape his attention and he reaches out for me, his lips finding my wet eyelids.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he mutters into my hair and tears begin streaming down my face but I don’t bother to wipe them. I want him to see how pathetic, how desperate I am. I want him to know what he’s getting himself into.

“I can’t undo what I did so many years ago, Elio,” his voice is still barely a whisper, “but I can try my best to make up for it now. If you let me.”

I nod shortly and he smiles uncertainly, concern still written all over his face.

“It’s just hard to accomplish when we lead our separate lives,” he lowers his eyes.

“I told you there’s no one to worry about. It’s just me.” I take his face into my hands and stroke his lips with my thumbs.

“It’s not what I’m talking about,” he’s shaking his head avoiding my pointed look.

“What then?”

“Your life is here, in London, and mine is in Chicago, so we constantly have to leave each other, albeit temporarily, and I hate saying goodbye to you.”

I think I know what he’s about to say and I stay quiet, waiting, wanting him to say it, the sense of sweet excitement filling my insides.

“And I know I’ll have to get used to it cause you’re about to do a lot of travelling, but I just need a little time for the two of us and what we’ve had so far is not nearly enough.”

“You’re so cute,” I press a light kiss to his lips.

“What?” He frowns, looking a bit perplexed.

“You want me to move to Chicago?”

“Would you do that?”

“Of course,” I say simply. “Why didn’t you just ask?”

“It’s a lot to ask, isn’t it?” He shrugs guiltily. “I couldn’t do it if you asked me.”

“Because you have a son and responsibilities towards him. I, on the other hand…”

“You’ve spent your whole life in Europe. Your friends and family are here…”

“Stop, just stop.” I grab his shoulders and shake him a bit. “I’ve spent years in London and Paris, lonely and miserable. And now, when I can finally be with you, I won’t waste a second.”

“You mean it?”

“I mean it.”

He mounts me and kisses me fervently, his hands wander across my body. He gets in the mood so fast as if he’s been waiting for the go-ahead. I feel like teasing him a bit.

“Oliver.”

“What?” he pulls away with an animal growl.

“If we’re gonna live together we’ll need a bigger place.” It would sound like a complete mood killer if I wasn’t rubbing my groin against his.

“What?” He obviously can’t believe I’m talking about living arrangements in such an intimate moment.

“I need a piano and there’s no way it would fit into your apartment,” I make the most innocent expression and he growls again finally catching on to my game.

“I would throw away all the furniture so that you can have your piano or whatever else you need”.

The way he says it leaves me with no doubt he would do just that.

 

We slide into a happy-relationship mode with frightening effortlessness. Like, when things go too well you continually expect for downsize to show its face. The anticipation dissolves in a little while, though, giving way to other, way more pleasant feelings. Like the feeling of coming home to a rich smell of chocolate when he decides to make brownies because it’s the first day of autumn and the weather is horrible and he wants to sweeten my day up. Literally. Or the feeling of waking up at night from a bad dream and being pulled tightly by him, though he’s not really cognizant but always on guard against my nightmares, and I know I’m not alone and I’ll never have to be alone anymore. And sometimes it’s more than I can take but he never complains about my overload of emotions, which makes me think he’s been starving for being loved just like I’ve been starving to give my love. We match perfectly.

We learn things about each other. Things that make us more than just a couple, they make us one. I learn how he expresses his thoughts when he reads his students’ papers and I can tell exactly what mark a certain one’s going to get just by the way he hums and furrows and purses his lips. I learn what pieces he likes me to play when he’s in all kinds of mood and in a short time he doesn’t have to ask anymore as I feel like I know better what he needs. I learn how to make him come without so much touching cause apparently he has a thing for me talking dirty. In his turn, he learns that I don’t talk much when I compose and won’t shut up when I’m done. He learns that I hate spoilers so we usually read books together, side by side, living through the plot simultaneously.  He learns I’m the horniest version of myself when I’m drunk so some nights he literally drags me out of our apartment for drinks and then feigns remorse for taking advantage of me on the mornings after.

Very soon after our reunion comes the apprehension why I never fell for anyone else. How could I when he is the only one made for me? Moreover, he is more me than I am myself. He knows what I want, need or like better than I do, and vice versa. Just to think how many people haven’t come across their Olivers makes my heart ache.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Earlier I said this would be the last chapter but I want to do an epilogue or something. Hope, it won't take me another month to finish the story...


End file.
